Victoria inhaled, tightening her fingers against the coolness of the metal railing. Her hair, unburdened by the sea-breeze, snapped around her face with a ferocity befitting the situation. In every direction, salt stung her eyes, her nose, her mouth, until she wanted no more than to bury her face in a blanket, like her little brother used to do when thunderstorms rattled and shook their house. Backing away from the edge, she turned towards that man, a friend yet suddenly a stranger, wrapped in a fur coat, an empty wine glass dangling from his fumbling fingers. She searched his pale eyes for any sign of emotion, then, frustrated with the drunken haze that enveloped his being, she glanced over her shoulder at the ominous silhouettes on the starry horizon. Wrapping her robe tighter, she turned back to those grey, blank eyes. “This is it, isn’t it?”
From the cabin she could hear the captain cursing, or at least what she thought was cursing – her Russian was still too poor to tell. His tone was enough, and it spoke for them all. The soft whirr propelling them forward was no match for the pursuing thunder – she should have known a yacht couldn’t outrun a battleship in the long run. But the jet was back in L.A. – too far for an emergency rescue – and she couldn’t dream of chartering one on such short notice. She shivered to think what would happen if they caught up with her. For the first time in her life, she felt not only sinking anxiety or twitching nervousness but pure, undeniable fear – a nightmare with no release. They were coming. And they were coming for her.
In desperation, her thoughts traipsed back through misty memories – one final review of all she might lose. To her surprise, it was not the Ferrari, the penthouse apartment or beach house that swam before her eyes now. Human faces filled the place of bank slips and magazines – eyes smaller and brighter than she had imagined, pleading for one last word. At every one she held back tears, waving away Jill’s green gaze and her mother’s warm embrace. She wondered if she had acted differently if she might see them again. She wondered if there had ever been any escape, if she had said no from the beginning if it would be any different – if it was her fault for dreaming too much, aiming too high.
One final face appeared before her, nudging its way out of the stream of memories. Automatically, she tried to shove it away, but those dark eyes held her. And it was at this that she finally broke down – at that guarded smile never meant for her, the tousled hair that, like its owner, refused to be tamed. Sobbing without reserve, she reached out to touch him, to offer him in the face of death what she never could in life. But her hands met not the warmth of his flesh – only the air that failed to mime it.
Walking back to the blond man, she snatched the bottle from his hand, pressed her open mouth on his before sloshing another healthy serving of champagne down her throat. “Let’s do this.”
--*-- --*-- --*-- --*--
It all began about a year and a half ago, when the United States had just elected a minority as President for the first time in history, and the no-longer fledgling Dalton Enterprises was finally spreading its wings. Victoria Dalton had started the company at the tender age of 23, when it was little more than a couple of nerds with computers in her basement. Since then, it had grown to a nation-wide corporation that, according to Business Week Today, had “revolutionized email, social networking, and even mobile communication.” After all this success, there was yet more to achieve. Victoria dreamed of expansion – of an office in every world capital and universal coverage. Beyond the money, she wanted the prestige, fame, and, most of all, power that came with the title “multi-national corporation”. But, as she knew, such gratification would not come instantly. It would be the hard-earned reward of years more work she would be all too eager to grant. And it would have to happen in steps, not one giant leap. Victoria was ready for this – more than ready. She would sell her soul in an instant to grasp the dream glittering before her and know for sure that it was real. The only question left was where that first step would lead.
The answer came in the form of Sergei Karulzyov, a seemingly slight man of low stature and unkempt whiskers. One day in the thick of August, when the streets of New York pulse with humidity and the pavement steams pedestrians alive, he appeared at the base of Dalton Tower, requesting to speak with the Dalton herself. Of course, the receptionist nearly laughed him out of the waiting room, explaining between chuckles that Ms. Dalton was preoccupied, as any chief executive officer would be, and that she certainly wouldn’t clear her schedule out for a vagrant like him. Sergei merely replied with that same cold, Russian stare shared by all the successful dictators and murderers from his homeland’s history. While the good Sandra Harris was intimidated, she would not relent. “If you wish to arrange a meeting with Ms. Dalton, you must go to room 147 on the second floor, and fill out this form.” Her smug smile told him that she believed he would never obtain such a meeting; he, smiling back, knew otherwise. A few forms and exchanges of business cards later, Sergei happily penned in a meeting for lunch with Victoria Dalton, next Monday.
When Victoria waltzed into her seat at La Ficelle Noire, she was quite surprised. The man before her, though appropriately clad in an Armani suit, seemed as if he would be more comfortable fixing engines or firing rifles than schmoozing and signing contracts. His black ponytail shined with volumes of grease worthy only of mechanics, and, where his face did not have poorly groomed hair, the skin lay sallow and pockmarked, carving bowls into his cheeks. His stern brown eyes hid beneath the furry ledge of his eyebrows, barely peeking out to offer a semblance of cordiality. Even with the suit, his body seemed too emaciated to support itself or even hold its wiry structure, but she could tell that a secret strength lay within. Perhaps she could do business with this man after all.
Though he had heard quite a good deal of Ms. Dalton, Sergei too was nonetheless surprised and even impressed when finally he shook her hand. Despite her firm grip, there was a tenderness in her hands – a softness not far from the skin on a baby’s bottom or the fleece of blankets swaddled tight in the dark of winter. And though her grey eyes stared onward with great strength and confidence – pride, one could even say – there was youth in them, perhaps innocence and even vulnerability. She couldn’t have been more than thirty – her skin held no wrinkles, save for small creases in her forehead when she frowned (and ones around her mouth and eyes that one would have seen if she ever smiled, which was indeed rare), yet she walked and spoke as if fifty years’ experience backed the power of her words. “Hello, Ms. Dalton,” he began, refusing to let any of his confidence to melt, no matter how strong the firepower of hers was. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”
“And you as well,” she answered, sliding into her seat as she offered him a half-smile. With a nod to the assistant behind her, she flipped open the menu. “I understand you have a business proposal you wish to make me.”
Sergei smiled. It wasn’t even a question. “I understand, Ms. Dalton, that you wish to expand beyond your present borders.”
A single penciled eyebrow curled upward. “Perhaps that is true, Mr. – Karulzyov, is it?” Sergei offered a curt nod in response. “Perhaps it is not. Who told you such a thing?”
Ignoring the accusations in her eyes, he folded his hands and continued in his husky accent. “Ms. Dalton, I am head of a group of researchers – scientists trained in the fields of both neurology and computer sciences. We are on the verge of a breakthrough with a particular brainchild of ours that we have been working on for almost ten years now. We know it is going to be a ‘cash cow’, as you might call it – all we need is a sponsor who is willing to help.”
“And that’s where I come in, correct?”
Sergei glanced up and down her iron stance. Normally, such a voice would excite thrills and shockwaves of ice down anyone’s spine – but he was not just anyone. The scars he had earned represented more than just a physical struggle. And with the hand he now held, another such victory was not far off. “Imagine, if you will,” he began, eyes burning with excitement, “a world where ideas flow faster than air. Where a child in Africa can instantly contact an NGO operating out of London to alert them to possible problems with their aid shipments. Where you and I can talk from Moscow to New York without even the push of a button – or even a translator. With Ambrozi, that and more will be possible.”
“Go on…”
“The way it works,” he continued, smirking, “is with a little chip that can be implanted anywhere on the body. We use electrodes to connect it to the nerves and place receptors in the ears and mouth, all of which can be disguised in many forms. The chip, in theory, will communicate with our central servers, sending data from the mouth and receiving it in the ear. Thus, the wearer can say, “Call home”, and, instantly, it will be done. There is no risk of ever losing a cell phone, which makes this as secure as ever. One can also dictate emails, even with the softest whisper so as to not be heard. Now, we are working on a more complex version that will allow calls to be sent merely by thought, but that won’t be out for quite some time…”
“But the primary model – how long, do you think, would it take from this meeting until the first system sells?”
“A year if we start right away – two, tops. But this would require a good deal of, em, participation on your part…”
Victoria glanced at the waiter standing patiently behind her. “I’ll have the Steak Diane, please, and a glass of the 1986 Carmenet Zinfandel. And you, Mr. Karulzyov?”
“The Lobster Thermidor, if you please. And, uh, the Beaumont Chardonnay.”
The waiter bowed politely, recollecting each menu with a sweeping arm. “Thank you, sir. Thank you, madam.”
“You were saying?” Victoria began as soon as the man left earshot.
“We will need you to relocate, at least for a while. If you need to take trips to return to the states, we can certainly make accommodations, but the majority of your time for the next year would need to be spent in Moscow.”
“Moscow, mm? I would need a visa, among other things.” Beneath her stern frown gears whirred and clicked into place. “And someone who speaks both Russian and English, to live with me. Do you realize how much time it would take to arrange all of that?”
His moustache parted to reveal yellowing teeth. “You do not realize, Ms. Dalton,” he explained, “what sway I hold back home. You will be on a plane to Russia in two weeks with everything settled. Trust me – it can be done.”
